


i want, i want (but that's crazy)

by zaries



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Brief mentions of gigi but Trust she is out of the picture, Gay Harry, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, basically they want each other but they're stubborn. classic., bi Zayn, ok because they're drunk they're not going to have sex but there's still luv involved, zigi is dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 16:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18968851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaries/pseuds/zaries
Summary: After years of (un)comfortable silence, Harry visits Zayn after the Met Gala.





	i want, i want (but that's crazy)

**Author's Note:**

> hello brave zarriors, here i am again back on my zarry bullshit. in my head, zayn & harry both pine after one another but are too stubborn to actually reach out to the other. but maybe, i thought, harry would finally make a move while they're in the same city during the met gala and he's buzzing on that fashionista high. yes the title is from a 2011 1d song, whatever man. 
> 
> please spare a kudos or comment if you want because i am, after all, an aries who craves validation.

Smoke drifts gently through the dimly lit room as Zayn takes another long hit of a joint, letting it fill up his lungs before he breathes it out slowly. The room smells like chemicals, the remnants of some now empty bottles of spray paint he deposited onto a canvas over the last couple hours. Now, Zayn steps back to assess his work, letting the smoke from the joint drift over his hand and dance softly across his face. 

An array of colors looks back at him from where they dance across each other on the canvas. Zayn doesn’t know entirely what he’s looking at, despite it being the product of his own creation. He’d smoked a bowl earlier, before putting on his mask and graffitiing onto the canvas aimlessly. There had been no vision in mind, none besides attempted distraction. And that vision seems to make itself known in the confusion and desperation of the mess of art in front of him. It’s just like him, Zayn thinks, reckless and forlorn, with just enough loneliness to spare. 

Tonight was the Met Gala, and Zayn had wanted no part of it whatsoever. He hates the performativity of it, the desire to upstage one another for no reason. He’s hated it for years, he thought this even when he went to support Gigi in 2016. It’s fucking annoying is what it is. And this year he has additional reason to hate it. 

This year, with the theme camp, it’s too over the top. But maybe it’s not the theme itself that bothers Zayn, fills him with some unshakable sense of distaste. Maybe it’s knowing who exactly will be there, dripping in camp and elegance and his unbearable confidence and sex appeal, loving every moment of the eyes on him, the voices screaming his name, smirking at the crowd and giving them just little enough to keep them wanting more. 

Zayn rubs his eyes with a fist and tries to get his mind off of the gala again. This was the reason he stayed home tonight, wanted to just get high and work on some art. Focus on himself. Ignore the chaos of the city and the fanatic reactions to the gala online and just stay safely in his own world. 

He heads towards the kitchen, the hall light harsh on his eyes after the warm dimness of his painting room. Through the house speakers, Chaiyya Chaiyya plays, his favorite Bollywood playlist set to run for the next few hours. 

Zayn pours himself a glass of water, though his eyes drift towards the liquor shelf for a moment before he thinks better of it. It might be nice to feel the burn of whiskey down his throat, let it lull him into more of a dreamy haze to take his mind off of what’s inevitably happening outside. 

Zayn’s eyes flicker to the kitchen clock— 1:53 a.m. Not too late. He sits at the counter, finishing up the joint and listening thoughtlessly to the music. He stubs the joint out on a dish and closes his eyes, waiting for the song to finish. 

Across the counter, his phone buzzes. Zayn jumps slightly at the interruption. He’d forgotten his phone was there; he hasn’t checked it in several hours. 

It had been an intentional move: to avoid all news of the Met Gala, to avoid prying tweets asking him why he’s not in attendance, why isn’t he there with Gigi. To hide from all the self-indulgent, celebrity-worshipping articles that he can’t stand. To make sure he doesn’t crack and end up texting something stupid to Gigi himself. 

But now, as the phone vibrates for a moment and becomes still once more, Zayn can’t stop his curiosity. It’s late, so maybe someone needs something. Maybe it’s Gigi calling to tell him how she missed him tonight, though he knows that’s not true. Their relationship had been dead for months before they finally ended it, again, officially. And besides, Zayn thinks, he wouldn’t want to hear from her anyway, as much as he’d love the small bit of validation in knowing he was missed. It would end in something worse than a fight, a sort of mutual frustration between each other that stains the rest of his day entirely and the knowledge that their relationship was done beyond repair. Knowing that he wanted it that way. 

Still, Zayn’s bored and a little stoned and can’t help but reach for his phone, just in case, he tells himself. There are a few texts from friends about nothing in particular, some calendar updates for the week. And six missed calls from an unknown number. 

Six. Zayn stands up quickly, gripping the phone, his heart beating rapidly. Shit. He scrolls through his call history. All six calls are from the last two hours, when he was in the other room painting. The first two calls were half an hour apart, but they’ve gotten progressively closer and closer together. The last missed call is from two minutes ago. A rush of anxiety shivers through his body. 

He tries to take a deep breath, tells himself to stay calm. It’s probably nothing, probably some sort of scam call trying to sell him something useless. But Zayn is prone to anxiety, as much as he tries to fight it, and his mind quickly barrels towards thoughts of tragedy: a hospital calling to tell him his mother’s been in an accident, his family’s home has burnt down and they have no belongings left, nowhere to stay, or someone’s dead someone’s dead someone’s dead. 

Fuck. He should probably call the number back, but he’s rooted to the spot, scared of what he might hear if he calls. Then the phone buzzes in his hand. It’s the same number. 

Taking a steeling breath, Zayn accepts the call and lifts the phone to his ear. 

“Hello?” he asks tentatively. 

“Zayyyyynn!” slurs a voice on the other end. The voice sounds unquestioningly familiar, and Zayn’s breath hitches.

He scrambles over to the wall to turn off the speakers, hoping he heard wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d thought he’d heard that voice over the past few years, sometimes in dreams, sometimes in a passing crowd of strangers on the street. “What the fuck,” Zayn mutters, mostly to himself. “Who is this?” he asks, though he already knows. 

“I’m so glad you picked up,” the voice murmurs, apparently ignoring his question. “I’ve been trying to reach you, you know.” 

Harry. It’s unmistakably him, with his deep, slow voice and Cheshire accent. His voice is slightly slurred in the way it gets when he’s been drinking. Zayn resents the warmth he feels in his stomach in response to it. 

“Why are you calling me,” Zayn asks, his voice stoic. “How did you even get my number?” 

There’s a giggle on the other end and some muffled noises, the sound of a partition being raised. “Your ex-girlfriend was at the gala,” Harry says mischievously, drawing out the word with a lilt in his voice. 

“She wouldn’t give you my number,” Zayn retorts through gritted teeth, a rush of anger flaring through his chest that he does his best to extinguish. His ex is a sore spot. And to hear about it from another ex, well that’s just another sort of hell. 

“No,” Harry practically sings on the other end, “though she did need someone to hold her purse while she freshened up in the ladies’ room, and I happened to be around. Plus it’s really not my fault that the passcode on her phone is so easy to guess.” 

Zayn lets out a huff of breath. He’s feeling too much—the remnants of adrenaline from his panicked state, dull anger at the mentions of his ex, an overwhelming sense of regret and heartbreak and the most frustrating echo of desire. Out of it all, Zayn settles on confusion. 

“What do you want, Harry?” he finally asks quietly, resigned. He could hang up at any moment, but part of him —a larger part than he’ll let himself admit—wants to hear just a little more of Harry's voice. 

“Oh! I’m coming over,” Harry says, as if they’ve been planning a casual get together over drinks rather than ignoring each other’s existence for years. 

Panic starts to flood through Zayn’s veins again. “No,” he says, too quickly. “No, no, Harry you’re not coming over. Absolutely fucking not.” 

“Zayyyyn,” Harry drawls again. Zayn can practically hear the exaggerated pout in his voice. “Come on, baby, I want to see you.” 

Zayn’s heart skips a beat at that and his face flames red. He digs his fingernails into his palm to stop the heat in his stomach from spreading lower. 

“Harry, no, tell the driver to take you back home, or to someone else’s place, anywhere else. You’re not coming here. I can’t.” 

“Why not?” Harry asks innocently. He’s such a brat. 

“I just— I,” Zayn’s choking on his own words. What’s he supposed to say to Harry, that he doesn’t want to see him, when he’s so close and clearly wants to? Somehow that lie seems harder to say than the truth. “Just go somewhere else, isn’t there someone else at your fancy gala who wants to take you to bed tonight?” 

“But I want you,” Harry pouts, his voice so sweet and teasing that Zayn could die. 

Zayn takes a deep breath in and out his nose, trying to brace himself. “Harry,” he tries, “You can’t come here. Go home.” 

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and Zayn’s heart twists in a mix of relief and regret. 

“I’ll tell you what,” Harry finally says, his voice stretching out every word long and slow. “You’re gonna let me come over, or I’m gonna call up The Sun right now and tell them everything that you and I used to do to each other back in the good ol’ days, how you’d kiss me and you wanted it, how you’d beg for me, how I’d used to get on my knees for you and suck you off—“ 

“Jesus Fucking Christ, Harry!” Zayn yells, cutting him off. “You wouldn’t fucking pull that shit. Fuck you.” He’s nearly shaking in anger now, or maybe more so in fear, gripping his phone so tightly his knuckles turn white. He doesn’t want to come out to the public, at least not yet, especially not in some kind of cheap tabloid scandal, and Harry knows that. 

“Wouldn’t I?” Harry asks coyly. 

“You’re fucking drunk,” Zayn accuses. 

“So what? You’re high,” Harry shoots back. 

“I’m not,” Zayn lies. Harry snorts. 

“I’ll be there in ten, Zayn. Buzz me up when I get there. I can’t wait to see you.” 

Then, before Zayn has a chance to say anything in response, Harry’s hung up and Zayn’s left there, alone, standing in his eerily silent kitchen. 

~~~~~

He doesn’t know exactly why he agrees to buzz Harry up to his apartment, seeing how it would be so easy to just leave him abandoned out front, let security eventually escort him away, but when Harry buzzes to his apartment and slurs, “It’s me. My car’s already left, let me up,” Zayn complies. 

~~~~~

Harry stumbles slightly into the apartment, straight into Zayn’s arms. He doesn’t mean to hold Harry this way, doesn’t intend to touch him at all really, but he’s worried about Harry tripping into something, and he stumbles so naturally into Zayn’s arms that Zayn tries not to overthink it. 

Harry’s so warm, his muscles hard under the softness of his skin. He smells like sweat and tobacco vanille cologne, vaguely like mint and with a touch of alcohol leaking through. Zayn wants to be disgusted by it, but it’s agitatingly intoxicating. His head swims as he breathes him in. 

Harry’s hands grip firmly at Zayn’s arms around his torso, and he manages to regain his balance before looking right into Zayn’s eyes, their faces just inches from each others. Zayn’s breath hitches, his heart beating rapidly as he meets Harry’s gorgeous green eyes. Fuck, he hates the intense attraction he has to this man, even after all this time. Harry grins, slowly blinks, and gently moves a hand to stroke Zayn’s loose hair out of his eyes. They’re quiet for a moment, listening to each other breathing, eyes wandering over each others’ faces. 

“So you are high,” Harry finally says with a playful smile and glint in his eyes. 

“Fuck you,” Zayn says, but he thinks he’s grinning just as obviously back at Harry. 

Harry’s wearing a black lace ensemble that hugs him tightly all over, his tattoos visible through the sheer top, and he looks so enchanting that Zayn feels like he’s in a dream. 

“You look good,” Zayn murmurs before he can help himself. 

Harry moves his hands up Zayn’s arms, over his shoulders, and wraps them behind his neck. “So do you,” he breathes, even though Zayn feels underdressed in comparison, in his ripped jeans and paint-stained tee. Harry’s eyes trace over Zayn’s jaw. He licks his lips so subtly, so naturally, that Zayn feels plummeted back into harsh reality before letting his own desire get the best of him. He pushes Harry away firmly but gently. 

“That shit you said on the phone was not okay,” he says. “Threatening to go tell the press about us? That’s not your fucking place.” 

“I know,” Harry says, too casually. He wanders aimlessly to the living room, running his hand over the edge of the couch. “I was bluffing, Zayn, I think you know that.” 

Zayn feels his defenses go up. “How would I know that?” he spits. “I don’t know you anymore, Harry. And if I knew that you were bluffing then why would you be here, in my apartment, right now?” 

Harry looks over at Zayn with something like pity in his expression. God, he looks good in that outfit. Zayn swallows. 

“Zayn,” he says calmly. “You will always know me. And I think you let me come over because you want to see me. Just like I want to see you. It’s simple, really.” 

He hates Harry, Zayn thinks, he really does, because how the fuck does Harry manage to still get in his head like this all these years later? His confidence is so fucking annoying, the way he glides around the room like he’s some kind of Gucci-clad prince, like he could melt anyone’s heart upon laying eyes on him. It’s so fucking annoying because it actually works, so Zayn can’t even really fault him for it. And the way he looks at Zayn from under his gorgeous fucking eyelashes, the way he twists his voice seductively like he knows that Zayn wants him too. And he does, he really does, and he hates it. 

“I need a drink,” Zayn mumbles, mussing a hand through his shaggy hair and wandering towards the kitchen. He heads straight for the liquor cabinet, reaching for the whiskey he’d decided against earlier. He hears Harry’s light footsteps padding along behind him, following him like a fucking puppy. 

Harry leans against Zayn’s back as he pours himself a glass of whiskey, trying not to get distracted by Harry’s warm breath against his neck or the pleasant weight of his body against his. Harry’s hands dance so softly over Zayn’s sides, barely touching him, just enough to feel the heat of his hands glide over his body. Zayn shoots back the whiskey in one clean shot, then pours himself another glass. 

“You want one?” he murmurs hazily to Harry. Why the hell not offer him a drink, he’s already drunk anyway. 

“Mm,” Harry hums into Zayn’s neck. “I’ll take whatever you want to give me,” he whispers, pressing his open mouth very lightly to Zayn’s skin, the hairs on his neck prickling at his tease of his touch. 

“Jesus Christ,” Zayn murmurs. Everything inside of him is pulling in different directions: deep longing, the urge to pull Harry close to him and kiss him senseless, the stubborn part of his psyche telling him to push him away, to shriek at him about how he fucked up something good that they had, to just sob and sob at what they’d had and lost. 

Instead, he shrugs Harry off of him and hands him a glass of whiskey before moving back into the living room, assuming Harry will follow. Zayn plops down on the couch and sips at his drink, feeling his head swim in a comfortable haze of weed and liquor. His eyes closed, he feels Harry’s weight drop on the couch beside him, then feels his long, bony feet settle in Zayn’s lap. Zayn peers over at Harry and sees him making himself comfortable on the couch, leaning back and lounging with one arm behind his head. He sips at his own drink as he stares back at Zayn, a mischievous smirk tugging at his lips. 

“I’m not going to fuck you, you know,” Zayn tells Harry pointedly. Harry says nothing in response, just cocks his head to the side and continues to gaze at Zayn. “Not like this, anyway,” he mumbles. “Not when you’re drunk, when you can’t think straight.” 

“I’m not that drunk,” Harry protests, and Zayn rolls his eyes. 

“So I told you you should’ve gone home with someone else tonight, ‘cos you’re not gonna get some from me tonight.” 

“Zayn, I told you that I wanted to see you, not someone else,” Harry says, scootching closer to him on the couch until he’s nearly sitting on Zayn’s lap. 

“Besides, you’re being quite presumptuous,” Harry continues, playing aimlessly with Zayn’s hair. “Who said that I came over here for you to fuck me?” 

“Are you taking the piss? All you’ve been doing is flirting and rubbing yourself on me.” 

Harry grins. “So? Still didn’t say anything about needing to fuck. Though I wouldn’t say no to it, so long as you ask nicely…” 

Zayn snorts, looking over at Harry almost shyly. He’d used a playful tone, but Zayn’s pretty sure there’s nothing but truth in his words. And a look in Harry’s eyes confirms it for him, his lips tugged into a cheeky grin, but something more desperate, maybe even sad, in his green eyes. 

Zayn decides to ignore Harry for now, not knowing what to say in response anyway. He uses the remote nearby to turn on the Bollywood playlist over the speakers and sips at his drink for awhile. Harry sits back and does the same, keeping his gaze softly on Zayn’s face, a faint smile never leaving his lips. 

Zayn finds himself stroking Harry’s shins gently, where they rest on his lap. 

“You really just wanted to see me?” Zayn asks cautiously. 

Harry nods, grinning playfully. “And, you know, I was in the neighborhood.” 

“The neighborhood being… New York City? ‘Cos the Met is pretty far from Soho, I don’t think many would consider it the same neighborhood, you know.” 

Harry shrugs. “It was a big night for me,” he says simply. 

Zayn stares at him for a minute, waiting for the punchline. When it doesn’t come, Harry just staring back at him with his wide eyes, Zayn can’t help but laugh out loud. 

“What are you possibly on about?” he asks. 

“Oh, shut up,” Harry smiles back, shoving Zayn’s shoulder playfully. “What I meant, sir, is that tonight was a big night for me, and I wanted it to be perfect in every way, and there was just something missing, d’you know what I mean, like when you can sense practically in your soul that something’s not there? And I was going back and forth like what could possibly be missing? What did I do wrong? I thought I did everything right! What is it that’s missing, that’s causing this deep hole in my chest, that’s just making me ache? And then, Zayn, do you know what I realized?” 

Zayn wants to laugh at Harry and his drunk rambling, but Harry’s moved even closer to him throughout his impromptu monologue, and there’s a fire in his eyes. As much as some voice in his head screams for him to push Harry away, to tell him he’s drunk and stupid and an asshole, his heart flutters and reaches for Harry and all of the passion he brings. 

“What?” he whispers. 

“Well,” Harry moves closer to Zayn, placing his hands on Zayn’s shoulders and swinging a leg over Zayn’s lap so that he’s straddling him but holding himself up on his knees, not allowing their lower bodies to touch. Zayn’s hands move up to hold Harry’s hips without thinking. “I was getting a drink at the afterparty, feeling happy but feeling kind of empty too, you know, and so, so frustrated at whatever it is— this itch that I can’t seem to locate let alone scratch— and then I heard someone else at the bar ask if they could have an appletini!” 

There’s a pause, like Harry’s expecting some kind of reaction. “Uh huh…” 

“And that, Zayn, got me thinking of you.” Harry beams. 

Zayn blinks. “I hate that stupid drink, why the fuck would that make you think of me…” 

“That’s exactly it, I said you know who hated appletinis? Zayn Malik, that’s who! I said, he used to rip me to shreds for liking that fucking drink! He was such a prick about it, and he’d used to say, and I quote, ‘that’s a drink for geriatric primary school teachers who wear mothball-eaten leopard print jackets and who care more about reruns of Eastenders than they do about their own lives.’ And I’d say to him ‘fuck off, I like it, it’s fruity, just like me,’ and then he’d tell me I’m an idiot, but I’d let him say it because he was just so cute and I just liked him sooo much.” 

“You absolutely are an idiot,” Zayn interrupts, grinning despite his best interests. 

“But that appletini, darling, that got me thinking of you, and I realized it’s you that was missing from tonight. I realized that I’ve missed you at so many of these events, I missed the fun we used to have. And then I just couldn’t shake it, I was seeing you all over that party, in every tattoo and flash of dark hair, and I said to myself fuck it, I’m going to go see him, I’m going to Zayn.” 

“Huh,” Zayn just breathes, unable to tear his gaze from Harry’s pink lips now, just inches away from his own mouth. “You really missed me that much?” 

“Yes. Did you miss me?” 

“I think so.” 

“Good.” And then Harry threads his fingers through Zayn’s long hair and pulls him in close to kiss him. 

Any instinct Zayn tries to summon up to give him the courage to push Harry away from him dissolves as soon as Harry’s mouth covers his. He forgets all of his doubt, his hesitation and anger and kisses Harry back, long and hard, fisting Harry’s hair tight in one hand and pushing him closer with his other hand firmly on Harry’s lower back. 

Harry finally sits his weight fully on Zayn’s lap, and Zayn thinks he might be seeing stars if his eyes hadn’t already drifted closed in pleasure. They’re so close, their chests flush against each other, arms around the other’s neck, shoulders, touching each other’s bodies all over. 

Zayn thinks for just a fleeting moment maybe this is a bad idea, but then Harry’s hands are cupping his face, and he’s kissing him so deeply over and over, his tongue gliding over Zayn’s, and Zayn can’t think of anything else besides Harry, finally being back in his arms. 

Their breathing grows heavier as they kiss and touch and press themselves against one another, pulling the other in like any physical separation would cause them pain. And who knows, thinks Zayn, maybe it would. With Harry back in his arms, in his lap, in his mouth, he can’t imagine ever letting him go again. 

Harry starts moving his hips more, in small, hypnotizing circles over Zayn’s lap, and he’s such a tease but feels so good that Zayn genuinely forgets to breathe for a moment. He pulls back, ever so slightly, but keeps their foreheads resting against each other’s. Their warm breaths entwine, and Harry keeps stroking Zayn’s hair. 

Zayn thinks about saying something, I didn’t even know how much it hurt to lose you until now or That’s a lie, of course it fucking hurt, I loved you so much, you utter piece of shit, or even just something like Fuck it, let me take you to bed, but he can’t. He just can’t. 

So instead he moves, surprising Harry by gripping his ass and moving them both in one swift motion to lay on the couch, Zayn’s body on top of Harry’s. Harry shrieks a little in surprise as he’s lifted up, then giggles as they adjust to their new position on the couch. He reaches a hand up to the back of Zayn’s head and pulls him down again into a bruising kiss. 

Zayn can’t be sure how long they lay there, moving together, kissing over and over until his lips ache, brushing their hands over every part of each other’s bodies. He can’t help but grind down against Harry after Harry wraps his legs around Zayn and not-so subtly rolls his body against him. 

“So… about you not fucking me tonight…” Harry teases breathlessly, his eyes glazed over. “S’your mind still made up on that?” 

Zayn looks down at him, really truly, at Harry’s sweaty, wavy hair and his deep, eager eyes and the way he’s biting his lip so sexily, and he so wants to give in, to take Harry completely the way they used to, to lose himself in Harry and all his charm and beauty. 

“I can’t, Haz,” he says, the old nickname slipping out accidentally, but he’s too far in now to be embarrassed by something like that. “It wouldn’t be right, not with you drunk like this.” He strokes Harry’s hair gently out of his face and brushes his thumb over Harry’s lips. 

“We used to fuck drunk all the time,” Harry pouts, but Zayn can see he doesn’t intend to push it any further, just wants to express his disappointment. 

“Yeah, but that was different,” Zayn says. “In so many ways… I mean, we don’t even know what we are to each other now.” 

“Do we have to be something to each other, or is it enough to both be here right now?” Harry asks quietly. 

“I don’t know,” Zayn answers honestly. “I don’t know.” 

“So if I weren’t drunk, you would be taking me to bed right now, then?” “I didn’t say that…” 

“You didn’t have to, Mr. Malik.” 

Harry pulls him down again, pressing their lips together hard and passionately, letting Zayn kiss and suck at his neck. 

“You can leave marks,” Harry groans quietly, digging his fingers into Zayn’s shoulders. “No one will know they’re from you… but you can mark me up for you, babe.” 

Zayn sighs in response, pressing his face closer to Harry’s neck. The skin there is so warm and smooth, and Zayn has to bite his tongue to keep himself from making an audible reaction. He wants to take Harry entirely, to get lost in him the way he used to. To kiss him for hours and taste him and take him, then to hold him and feel the heaviness of Harry’s gaze on him as they drift to sleep in each other’s arms. The thought of it makes Zayn’s stomach clench and a trickle of sadness drip through his chest. 

He presses his teeth and lips to Harry’s neck and sucks, hard, leaving bites and bruises over his neck and shoulders. If he doesn’t, he think he might start to cry. 

Harry responds enthusiastically as Zayn expected, moaning low and soft as Zayn sucks and licks at his soft skin, pressing kisses to each mark he leaves, moving his hands over Harry’s chest and back and ass. 

“Zayn, yes, that’s so good darling,” Harry breathes, tightening his legs around Zayn’s waist and pulling him in even closer. His breaths are heavy, and he feels so solid, so real against Zayn, grinding up against him, and Zayn can feel his arousal matching his own, and suddenly it’s all too much. 

“Harry, no, I can’t do this.” 

Zayn sits up quickly, pressing fists to his eyes to stop tears from springing free. He stumbles off of the couch, off of Harry, and towards his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He immediately slides to the floor, his back against the door, and feels the warm tears betray him as they fall down his face. Zayn feels like he’s been stabbed, feels the pain of all his memories with Harry flood through. 

The two of them flirting onstage in front of thousands of people, touching each other’s asses and nipples and giving each other bedroom eyes across the stage, whispering to each other every filthy thing they wanted to do to the other after the show. Knowing they’d likely get chewed out by someone in management afterwards but not giving a fuck in the slightest, just having genuine fun with one another, running around filled with adrenaline and joy and desire. 

How they’d messed around with each other more casually at first, nervous and hesitant when they were young, until somehow it eventually became something more. The first night Zayn remembers that they actually made love rather than drunkenly rutting against each other when they were drunk and high on who knows what. How it had felt to enter Harry and to feel their bodies so impossibly close to one another, how they’d gazed into each other’s eyes as they breathed shakily together, and how Harry had tenderly brushed Zayn’s long hair out of his eyes and said “there is no one else like you, Zayn, I can’t believe what you’ve done to me.” How that had been his unspoken way of saying “I love you,” and they both knew it. How Zayn couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud either so instead he said “I want you so bad, Harry.” And Harry had said “so take me.” 

Zayn’s crying into his palms, pressing them against his eyes like he could possibly push the tears back in. “Did you love him?” he thinks to himself, then cries harder knowing that he doesn’t need to think of an answer to that question. The answer is an obvious, resounding yes, something he’s carried with him in the many years since he’s been with Harry. 

He’s never loved anyone else the way he loved Harry. He’s been in love with other people throughout his life, but never the way it felt with Harry. Maybe the strength of it, the ability it had to nearly knock him out at times, came in how unexpected it was. He never planned to fall in love with Harry, never saw it coming. Hell, he’d never planned to fall in love with a man period, thought he could squelch that part of himself that had been itching below his skin since he was young. Marry a nice, proper girl who he did genuinely love and never have to really address that desire to feel other men against his lips. 

And then Harry arrived, sauntering into his life with the bubbly, cocky strut that he used to enter every room, and Zayn was officially fucked. Not only was it against the plan to fall for a boy, he had to choose one of the most widely desired boys across the world stage, a boy who was always teasing him and using his heart-melting green eyes to flirt with everyone he encountered, and who was, all things considered, guaranteed to ultimately break his heart. 

Still, Zayn had cherished the time he had with Harry, pretending that what they had was casual, just a fling while they were touring together so that he would never have to admit otherwise, that he was in love with a man who was destined to leave him broken. Until he couldn’t pretend any longer. And when Harry loved him back, it made a supernova in his chest. 

They’d fucked it up, both fucked it up so badly. They let the band come between them, Zayn falling apart from his mental illness and awful habits from the road, Harry focused on his career and his own depression that he tried so fiercely to stifle in front of others. They should’ve all walked away, Zayn thinks, left all the madness behind them. But Harry and he could never be normal again, not after five years of fame flashed by, torn them to pieces, and abandoned them as utter shreds of their former, innocent selves. 

Zayn wipes his tears with his hands, feeling pathetic and depressed and too tired to hate himself for it this time. 

There’s a soft pattering of footsteps approaching the door, then a muffled sound of weight settling on the opposite side of the door. A soft rapping of knuckles and then, gently, “Zayn?” 

Zayn takes in a shuddering breath, tries to settle his churning stomach. He says nothing, hoping that if he squeezes his eyes shut tight enough, Harry and all of the deeply entwined history they share will vanish from sight. 

“Zayn,” Harry tries again, speaking so softly it’s nearly too quiet to hear from the other side of the barrier between them. “I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to push too far.” 

There’s a pause, like Harry’s waiting for a response perhaps. Zayn doesn’t know what to say, so he stays silent. Despite the door separating them, he feels like he can feel the heat of Harry’s body creeping through the barrier, weaving around his own. 

“Zayn,” Harry says carefully. “I’ll stop with all this … I’ll leave if you want me to. But I need you to tell me that that’s what you want.” 

Zayn takes a shaky breath in, then out slowly. “Wha’ d’you want?” he mumbles, pressing his face against the door like that would get him any closer to Harry. 

“As always, I just want you,” Harry says with such a calmness that makes Zayn feels nervous. Then, “But right now I want to know what it is you want.” 

“I don’t know,” Zayn murmurs, running his fingers softly across the wood of the door. He wishes it were Harry’s soft hair instead. At the same time, he wishes Harry were miles away from him, not mere centimeters, somewhere where he couldn’t sense his heat and smell his sweat and cologne and feel this deep, painful ache in his chest. 

“Zayn,” Harry tries, for what feels like the millionth time tonight. Maybe he’s crying on the other side of the door, too, Zayn can’t quite tell by the muffled sound of his voice. 

“Harry, I don’t know,” Zayn says, tears filling his eyes again. “I don’t know, I don’t know.” He feels hysterical, feels like he’s swirling through the universe, unraveling as he moves faster through the endless darkness choking his body. There’s no easy answer. If Harry leaves now, Zayn knows he’ll feel the same emptiness he did when Harry left him last. An awful, ragged hole torn through his chest, gaping and bleeding. Temporarily filled with whatever he can stuff in it to seal the cracks—weed, coke, the dead touch of another lonely body. Yet if he lets Harry in, Zayn might lose the last bit of sanity he’s got left. Might trust every bit of his body and mind to a man unequipped to care for such an infinite burden. Like they were when they began, Zayn senses that Harry can only ultimately break his heart into a fine dust that scatters through the wind, impossible to be found again together, let alone sewn into a lovable but misshapen replacement. 

“Harry,” Zayn finds himself sobbing. The name frees itself from his mouth before he can stop it. 

“Zayn,” answers the calm voice across the door. 

“You fuck me up so bad, I swear I fucking hate you,” Zayn tells it. 

“Mm,” the voice hums, like he’s considering the weight of it. Then, the quietest thing he’s spoken all night. “Will you please open the door?” 

Zayn shakes his head even though Harry can’t see it. He wants to be angry and empty and miserable like he’s felt every time he thinks of Harry now. He wants to yell until his lungs ache and feel the devastation afterwards, when it’s clear that nothing has changed. But Harry, warm, confusing, terrible Harry on the other side of the door whispers “Zayn, please.” The desperation and desire in his voice is clear despite everything. And Zayn stands to open the door slowly. 

They stand face to face, avoiding each others’ eyes, Zayn shrouded in the bedroom’s darkness and Harry bathed in the florescent hall light. 

“I’m sorry,” they both mumble at the same time. They look up at one another. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry repeats, in a stronger voice this time. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Zayn, I just wanted to have fun, and I wasn’t thinking.” 

He’s so sincere, the regret obvious in his eyes. Zayn’s gut clenches. 

“Well, I’m sorry for my minor breakdown…” he trails off. 

“Look, Zayn…” Harry trails off as well. 

They stare at each other for some time, both unsure of what to say, what to do next. They don’t touch each other. Harry’s hands keep twitching upwards, like he wants to reach out to Zayn and quickly decides not to. Zayn thinks that maybe this moment should feel tense or unforgiving, but instead the air between them feels sad and resigned, just as he does. 

With Harry, Zayn is always stifling what he wants. He always wants to take Harry, to feel him as close to him as possible, to hold him close. He wants more than anything to be open with Harry, to actually talk to him and have him listen. To really see one another, to not just use each other for whatever selfish needs they have in any given moment. And for all of these years, Zayn has been swallowing down every urge he’s had to relieve these desires. Drowning the voices that tempt him to call Harry and to beg for his forgiveness, the voices that taunt him to say nasty shit about Harry when prompted to in interviews, killing the most basic desires he thinks he’s ever felt: to simply love this flirty, obnoxious, gorgeous man and to allow himself to be loved in return. 

Looking into Harry’s disappointed eyes now, so close to him and at the same time ridiculously far, Zayn decides to finally kill the swarm of doubt always buzzing around him. He wants to, for once, do what he wants, without holding himself back from fear and self-hate and anxiety. 

“Come ‘ere,” Zayn says, extending a hand gently towards Harry. 

Harry’s eyebrows raise in surprise, but he slides his hand into Zayn’s, then stumbles forward when Zayn pulls him in close and wraps an arm around Harry’s waist. He pulls Harry in so they’re chest to chest, their noses nearly brushing together. Zayn lets go of Harry’s hand so he can raise his own hand to cup Harry’s cheek. 

Harry’s standing still, looking back at Zayn with an expression of awe and surprise. He looks like he’s afraid to move, to make the wrong decision and to scare Zayn away again. Not this time, Styles, Zayn thinks to himself. 

He leans in, slowly and with intent, and kisses Harry the way he truly wants to. It’s gentle and relaxed, soft and smooth. It’s different than before because Zayn finally lets go of the fear and the anger he’s been harboring for so long. It’s not meant to lead to anything, nor is it meant to say anything beyond right now, I want to kiss you. 

Harry’s still standing still, his hands hanging by his sides like he’s worried about what would happen if he touched Zayn. His lips tentatively press back against Zayn’s, but there’s hesitation. Zayn wonders if he’s trying to hold back, to let Zayn explore what he wants to without interruption. Maybe his lips are pressing back against his own will, a reflex to Zayn’s touch like Zayn has so often felt in response to Harry. 

Zayn pulls away. “Kiss me back, you arsehole.” 

Harry’s eyebrows lift higher, and he sucks in a breath. “Are you sure?” he asks, even as his hands begin to drift up Zayn’s chest. His eyes are so big and so close, and Zayn can see the longing in them. He wonders if Harry’s looking back at the same thing in his own eyes. 

“Yeah,” Zayn says, “Never been more sure of anything.” And this time, he truly means it. 

They kiss again in the doorway, Harry entangling his arms around Zayn’s shoulders, Zayn’s hands on Harry’s face and the small of his back. It’s calm and gentle, not the kind of kiss that leaves a bruise. Yet for all its softness, Zayn can feel the ghost of Harry’s touch remaining on his lips as he pulls away. 

He looks at Harry, tracing his lips with his thumb. Harry’s eyes take a moment to drift back open, like he’s savoring every moment of their kiss. When he finally meets Zayn’s gaze, his lips quirk into the same goofy, shit-eating grin that Zayn’s come to expect of a content Harry. 

“So,” Zayn says. “I have some rules. We’re not having sex tonight.” 

Harry nods solemly, like he’s taking an oath. Zayn continues. 

“You’re taking off this ridiculous, sexy outfit before you get into bed, you can borrow something from me. And you need to brush your teeth and drink a glass of water before anything else ‘cos you reek of fuckin’ appletini.” 

Harry’s face might burst with the enormity of the smile growing across it. “So what I got from that,” he says with his trademark mischievous glint running through his words, “Is that you’re letting me go to bed with you tonight.” 

Zayn rolls his eyes but can’t help but laugh. “Yes, you have my permission to come to bed with me tonight, Mr. Styles. But no funny business.” 

Harry bats his eyelashes at Zayn. “I wouldn’t dream of it, sir, I’m a perfect gentleman.” 

Zayn smiles, genuinely, and gives Harry one more kiss, pulling him in tight, before pushing him away, towards the kitchen. “Go get yourself cleaned up!” he calls after Harry’s giggling form. “And drink some fucking water so I don’t have to take care of your bloody hangover in the morning.” 

Zayn moves through his bedroom and bathroom, finally turning on the light, and preparing himself for bed. He allows his mind to drift as he washes his face and brushes his teeth, letting himself give in to his cloudy thoughts, vaguely hearing Harry putter around in the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water. As he dries his face with a towel, he feels Harry approach him from behind and softly wrap his arms around Zayn’s waist, pressing himself against Zayn’s body like he’d done when he first arrived tonight. Zayn meets his gaze in the mirror, and Harry gives him a soft smile, resting his head against Zayn’s shoulder. 

“You okay?” Zayn asks, moving one of his hands over Harry’s where they hold his waist. Harry nods, presses a kiss to Zayn’s shoulder. 

“Here, use whatever in here to get cleaned up,” Zayn offers, stroking a hand through Harry’s messy hair. “I’ll be in the next room, can get you something to wear.” 

“I’d rather just sleep naked,” Harry murmurs. Then, seeing the look on Zayn’s face in the mirror, he adds, “No funny business, I know that, Zayn, but I just prefer it anyway! Plus for this one chance I have to actually sleep next to you again, I want to be able to feel it all, no clothes in the way.” 

Zayn rolls his eyes, gives Harry’s hair a light tug. “Fine, but you’re sleeping on the couch if you even try anything naughty.” They grin at each other through the mirror before Harry reluctantly lets go of Zayn and lets him leave him to get cleaned. 

Zayn wanders into his bedroom and changes into just a pair of boxers for sleeping. Harry may feel comfortable with his nudity, but Zayn doesn’t think he’s quite ready yet for Harry to see him naked again. Especially when he’s trying so hard to avoid sex while they’re both still intoxicated. 

He dims the lights and slides into bed, waiting beneath the soft duvet for Harry to join him. Zayn wonders, fleetingly, if he should be feeling anxious about allowing Harry to stay the night, letting him sleep beside him as if they’re a couple in love instead of former flames with enough unaddressed issues to destroy them. But Zayn lets that thought go, at least for now. For now, he wants Harry near him, in his bed. Anything else can wait until morning. 

Eventually, Harry steps out of the restroom, completely naked and lit softly in the lamplight. He’s so gorgeous, so utterly exquisite with his long limbs and tattoo-covered flesh. He never seems embarrassed about standing naked before him, and Zayn wonders if he’s like that with everyone or just with him. 

Harry walks towards the bed with a dopey smile on his face and crawls towards Zayn, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before sliding below the covers. He instantly curls himself against Zayn, weaving their legs together and sliding an arm over Zayn’s stomach. 

“Harry…” Zayn says hesitantly, entirely too aware of every bit of Harry’s naked body pressing against his scantily-clad one. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not doing anything,” Harry mumbles, tucking his face into the hollow between Zayn’s neck and shoulder. His soft hair brushes against Zayn’s jaw. “I just want to hold you, if that’s alright.” 

Zayn lets out a deep breath, then allows himself to wrap his arms around Harry’s torso, pulling him even closer. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, “that’s alright.” 

Tonight, he’ll hold Harry close to him and allow himself to be held in return. He won’t rush to put out the fire that Harry lights in his heart, nor will he listen to the voices of doubt constantly attempting to burn him down. Tonight, and maybe for just this moment, maybe he’s in love again. Though they may have none of it intact tomorrow, Zayn kisses Harry again and accepts the bolt of emotion it sends down his chest. They’ll be okay, at least for tonight.


End file.
